


WOY Mini-Fic-A-Thon 2016 - I Said What About Breakfast At Tiffany's?

by 3amepiphany



Series: Woy Mini-Fic-A-Thon 2016 [9]
Category: Wander Over Yonder
Genre: F/M, alcohol!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 20:36:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7402972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3amepiphany/pseuds/3amepiphany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or Alternately: This One Said He Wants To Buy You Rockets</p>
            </blockquote>





	WOY Mini-Fic-A-Thon 2016 - I Said What About Breakfast At Tiffany's?

**Author's Note:**

> http://omegalovaniac.tumblr.com/post/146972752904/okay-i-know-today-is-the-last-day-for-mini-fic

Sylvia laughed loudly, and he sat back against the booth, shaking his head. “There’s no way, I don’t know all of the words.” The pen rolled across the table and she picked it up with one of her gloved hands, and pulled one of the slips from the front pocket of the songbook. “No, no, Sylvia, please, pick something I can actually sing--”

She shook the pen at him. “You said I could pick a song if I let you pick one for me.”

“Yeah,” Peepers said, stopping to take a drink of his beer, “I actually picked something you were okay with singing, though, this is no fair, it’s no fair.”

“See but karaoke for me isn’t just about singing it right, it’s just about singing, period. I don’t think I’ve done a song twice in at least three years. I have faith in you,” she said, filling out the slip.. “There’s a screen and you are at least aware of how the song sounds. You can sing something nice later. I’m not going anywhere for at least a few drinks, so by that logic, neither are you.” She flipped through another few pages to find a song for herself, and pulled out a slip for it.

He scooted over closer to her to look through the book again, taking care to make sure he wasn’t snagging himself on her fishnets, nabbed the pen from her, and filled one out for himself fairly quickly. “I’m putting the later one in, too.”

“What are you singing?”

“I’m not telling you,” he said, folding the slip in half. “You’ll find out when they get me up there for it.” Peepers handed her back the pen and sat there, chin in his hands.

Sylvia looked down at him, very obviously noticing that he hadn’t yet moved away. She flipped through the pages, playing with her necklaces idly as she browsed, and wrote down the song she wanted, and then handed him both slips so that he could walk it all up to the DJ. He reluctantly took them and hopped down the bench and out his side of the booth and as he stood there waiting for the person in front of him to finish speaking with the DJ, he looked over his shoulder at her. She sipped at her drink through her straw carefully not wanting to smudge her lipstick quite this early in the night, watching. She was sort of glad she hadn’t pregamed, but she was also just a little sad that she wouldn’t be as drunk as she’d like to be when they started queuing the songs. Peepers had very obviously had a drink or two of something strong before coming out. He was milking his glass, and she figured that she might be able to get down another pint before he’d finish his and play catch up.

He came back over, and sat just a bit closer than he’d been before, but not up against her like he’d done while looking at the book. His beer came with him. “So I have to ask,” Peepers said, and she brought her head down a bit to hear him over the bar’s music. “Was Dominator a good singer?”

“I think at that point we were both already a couple of drinks into the evening. It was hard to tell.”

“I don’t get it. Like. How?”

“I don’t either. I don’t know. I’ve stopped asking myself about it all, really.” She leaned in a little further. “But you,” she said, “are here, you’re out singing with me, and you are good at harmonizing by ear. It’s insanely good how you do that.”

Even in the dim, weird lighting of where they sat she could see him blushing a bit - it kind of came in around the edges of his lids, brightly. She was talking about their ride over in the taxi, singing to the radio to break up their awkward nervousness and entertaining the driver. “Thanks, it’s a bit of a parlor trick when your other party is good at improvising.”

“You don’t have to sugar-coat it, I’m bad, I know it.”

“No, it’s great, you know your range and you’re not afraid to push the boundaries of it.” He was a hell of a poker face.

“I’m bad, I’m bad,” she said, rubbing at her neck and laughing again. “It’s why I can enjoy karaoke so much - I don’t have to worry about sounding good at all.”

The queue was short enough that she had gotten called up earlier than she’d expected, and she was happy to see that he’d put in the song he’d chosen for her first. Easy-peasy, though she hadn’t heard it in a few years, so her timing was a little further off than it usually was, for her. But that was no matter, she still did it, just like she’d told him she would. He watched her, a little excitement in his expression, and when she finished, she took a bow to the applause from the bar, and stopped to order another beer before scooting back into the booth. Peepers handed her an extra napkin to rest the glass on, and said, “That was something.”

“Yeah, but I’d said it would be something.”

“You’re a trooper, though, you did it. And it was good, don’t sell yourself short.”

“Pshaw,” she said. They heard his name being announced, ‘C. Peeps’, and she clapped, and hooted and hollered and generally embarrassed him from the booth to the stage, and as he stepped up and took the microphone the DJ handed to him.

As he said he would, he bombed spectacularly. But his stage presence was enough of a consolation, surprisingly to her, and several of the other patrons were raucously cheering him on anyways through it. He’d gone up with his beer, drank half of what was left through the bridge and finished it as the last notes played out. Somebody ran up to him as he was stepping down to the applause to give him a bottle of brew and a few others gave him high-fives.

Sylvia smiled at him widely as he sat back down. “So,” she said.

He waved a hand, pointing at the beer. “They’re gonna be disappointed later. I’m gonna have to buy them a beer in return for listening to the second song.”

“Okay, so now I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“You say you don’t have stage presence.”

He looked at her oddly. “Eh? When did I say this?”

“Last week.”

“No.”

“Yeah, literally, last week, you were giving me that over-dramatic bit about how you preferred to work behind the scenes, that you like to move in company that ignores you. It allows you the ability to plan better, strategically, people underestimate you and stuff. The chess analogy thing.”

“Oh,” he exclaimed, nodding, remembering. “The chess thing. Yeah. Yeah.”

“You’re a rube. You say you don’t have stage presence.”

“I don’t.” As he said that, one of the bartenders came over with a tray and set down a couple of shots of liquor, from another patron. She pointed him out with one of her claw-like hands and he toasted to them from across the bar, yelling something intelligible. Peepers looked at Sylvia, and said again, “I don’t.” They toasted the guy in return and drank down. 

She smiled at him, and a laugh bubbled up again. 

Waiting for their next turns to cycle around, they made more small conversation and finished their drinks. He declared himself done, feeling a really, really good buzz and not wanting to get too out of hand about it. But he got up to order her another, and grabbed them a couple of glasses of water, too. He scooted in, closer this time, and flipped through the songbook some more idly while they sat quietly, enjoying the other patrons’ performances and clapping with each one. Sylvia downed most of her water before starting in on her next drink, nixing the straw. She was called up for her next song, and before she squeezed out of the booth she leaned in a little closer than she realized was comfortably neutral, and said, “Does my lipstick look okay?”

Peepers looked down at her lips, and then up at her, and nodded. 

She went up to the stage, and belted out a wobbly rendition of an older rock ballad about having no promises or demands, and it was wickedly well received by everyone in the place. She had people dancing, and singing along, and as she handed the mic back and headed back to the table at the end, to loud, loud applause, she made finger guns at him.

“Bad,” she said. “But good fun.”

Before Sylvia could sit, the DJ called him up and she helped him out of the booth, grabbing their drinks and coming up to the stage for this next ridiculous performance. She handed him her beer and stood there expectantly until he sipped at it. A few younger patrons broke into a dance as the song started up, and they pulled her into their group, twirling one another and bouncing about. She knew the song well, very well, and sang along, about how “it’s got what it takes,” and eyeing him gleefully through the applause as it ended.


End file.
